


saso 2015 fills

by harklights



Category: Haikyuu!!, Ookiku Furikabutte | Big Windup!
Genre: Gen, General Shenanigans, M/M, Multi, Suggestive Themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-04 05:58:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4127548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harklights/pseuds/harklights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>dropping all of my shipping olympics bonus round drabbles here. tags will update as i add more chapters. enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. inuoka sou/shibayama yuuki, t

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “In times of joy, all of us wished we possessed a tail we could wag.” - W. H. Auden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome aboard! today's warning is for the mention (but not use) of sex toys. this was also partially inspired by [that one](www.buzzfeed.com/michellekhare/these-women-tried-vibrators-for-the-first-time-and-recorded) buzzfeed article.

“Hey, do you see this?”

“Hm?” Shibayama pauses to see Inuoka stopped before a window. He backtracks to peer at whatever Inuoka’s happily pointing at, expecting to find a tray of food or a sweets shop or the promotion poster to an upcoming movie. What he does see makes his eyes grow wide.

“Okay,” Shibayama says.

“Doesn’t that one look sweet? The fur looks so soft! Haven’t you thought about what it’d be like to have a tail?” 

“If you had one it would be wagging all the time.”

“Woof,” Inuoka says around a crooked grin. Shibayama bites his lip and tries not to laugh. “Didn’t people have them a long time ago though? Tails, I mean.”

“A _long time_ ago if you’re talking about tails with primary functions, like what cats and dogs use for balance. We just have tailbones now, the coccyx. It’s a remnant of a vestigial tail that are found in humans and apes, and some other primates, and a lot of people think they’re completely useless now like the appendix – which you _do_ actually need after all - but if you look at the embryo of any mammal during a certain point in its development you would be able to see a tail, even in humans, so we do kind of still have them for a few weeks in the womb if you think that counts—“

“Yuuki,” Inuoka interrupts, making him aware of his rambling. “You’re really smart.”

Shibayama smiles and turns his head back to the window, eyes immediately landing on a pair of fuzzy handcuffs wrapped around a manikin’s wrist. Reluctantly, he remembers where they’re at.

“Hey,” Inuoka asks in dreadfully perfect timing, “Do you think they have a tail that matches my hair color in here? Maybe I could dye a white one if they don’t. I wonder if they have those Necomimi ears too.”

Shibayama glances up and down the street before clearing his throat. “Sou? Are you… Do you know what this is?”

“Yeah,” Inuoka answers, aiming a winsome smile at him. _It’s a costume store._ “It’s a sex shop.”

Shibayama’s heart leaps out of his chest a little, and he stares at Inuoka’s disappearing back in muted horror as a little doorbell jingles to signal their entrance. He’s not sure if he wanted to know that Inuoka knows what a sex shop is, or how the other first year feels so comfortable humming an aimless tune of ‘ooh’s and ‘ahh’s while passing an endless display of dildos in increasingly alarming shape and size, all of which Shibayama tries very hard not to ogle for fear of his parents somehow finding out about their raunchy foray into a place he doesn’t think minors are allowed to visit. It’s a slow week day and there’s no one behind the counter. Shibayama prays it stays that way as he quickens his steps to catch up to Inuoka.

“Hitachi Magic Wand,” Inuoka’s reading from a little placard akin to museum quotes placed next to priceless works of art. “’Simple design, incredible power, and long-lasting quality... The Magic Wand is best suited to those who enjoy deep, powerful vibrations, this wand can be enjoyed by beginners and advanced users alike... Pleasing housewives since the seventies.’ Wow. That’s, like,” Inuoka’s hand reverently curls over the tennis ball sized vinyl head. “Historical.”

“Mhm,” Shibayama agrees, tight-lipped. He turns around when Inuoka picks the vibrator up and turns it on. He closes his eyes. He’s not going to survive.

Behind him Inuoka giggles. “You know what this reminds me of?”

“What?” Shibayama asks, curious despite his growing horror.

 _“Evanesco!”_ Inuoka shouts, extending the wand with a flourish.

 _If only,_ Shibayama thinks, but he hears a tremulous burst of laughter fly out of his mouth anyway. Inuoka, seemingly satisfied by the response, begins rolling the vibrator up and down his arm, and Shibayama has to look away again except there’s really no safe place to let his gaze settle for very long. The back wall reminds him of the prize wall at arcades, jam packed with an overwhelming amount of sex toys in colorful boxes. There’s even a bright blinking sign boldly declaring that SEX IS BACK.

A woman suddenly appears from the back room, looking rushed and apologetic.

“I’m sorry for the delay, I didn’t hear anyone come in until- are those high school uniforms?”

“Oh, hi.” Undaunted, Inuoka drops the Hitachi Magic Wand, where it jitters frantically across the counter. Alarmed and painfully polite, Shibayama picks it up, flips the switch off, and sets it back onto its little pedestal. “I’m looking for a tail!”

That’s it, Shibayama thinks, turning on heel. He’s outside in a blur of second, heaving great breaths of relief as soon as the door jingles shut behind him. He rubs a hand over his face and waits for his heart to stop pounding. There's a bank right next door. Why couldn't they have gone into the bank instead?

Inuoka bursts through the door a minute later.

“I'm so sorry! We can get out of here!” He winds an arm around Shibayama’s shoulders and steers them back onto the sidewalk. “Are you okay?”

“Yep.”

“You can tell me to stop when I do stuff like that that makes you uncomfortable. I won’t be angry.”

“I know,” Shibayama replies. “But you seemed excited about the tail. You didn’t buy anything?”

“She said I couldn’t.” Inuoka glances down at him with that quiet, contemplative frown that always reminds him of just how perceptive he is, but then, like the sun appearing from behind a shroud of clouds, it’s replaced by a warm and beaming smile matched by a squeeze to his shoulder that makes affection creep up the back of his neck. 

“You’re the best, Yuuki,” Inuoka announces, and then without further preamble, “Do you want to grab some ice cream?”

“Ugh,” Shibayama groans. “Yes please. Your treat.”

“My treat,” Inuoka agrees, sliding his hand down his arm until he can twine two fingers around Shibayama’s. Shibayama wiggles his hand until they’re properly laced together.

It’s hard to match paces with Inuoka’s loping strides but they eventually find a tempo for each other. Inuoka swings their arms back and forth, looking content with the world. 

If he had one, Shibayama wonders if his tail would be wagging too.


	2. futakuchi kenji/aone takanobu, g

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I made a bet today that I could get more than two words out of you.”  
> “You lose.”
> 
> – Exchange between unknown dinner guest & U.S. President Calvin “Silent Cal” Coolidge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no new warnings! except maybe that this is very silly

“I made a bet today that I could get more than two words out of you.”

Aone looks at him. “With who?”

“Who do you think?”

Aone’s face darkens. Kenji can almost see the word _Pantalons_ scroll across his forehead. It’s not the first time they’ve done something like this at the expense of another teammate. The first years, even the level headed Sakunami, are sweet and impressionable and all too easy to elbow into doing truly ridiculous things. Fukiage's hit and miss. Obara, despite all signs pointing toward the opposite, is an occasional co-conspirator. Kenji doesn’t see the third years as much as before but their assessments are much the same as usual: Sasaya is a challenge. Kamasaki is simple. Moniwa’s just resigned.

It’s serious this time though, this bet. In addition to putting up a hefty sum of money, Kenji’s forfeited his near monopolistic role of picking out an activity for team bonding days, as per Dateko tradition. These days usually turned out to be something lazy like a trip to the mall or grabbing some food from a cheap restaurant if they wanted to fill their monthly quota of startling old ladies as they enter, en masse and in uniform, into a building. Or, even better and a personal favorite of Kenji’s, were the themed movie sleepovers that were strictly patrolled at the door to make sure everyone showed up wearing at least one appropriately themed article of clothing or accessory.

Nametsu has called him a nerd more than once, to which he always gleefully retorts _Takes one to know one._

To the winner goes the auspicious opportunity to have everyone do whatever they want for a few good hours. Kenji’s a little nervous. In the two times they’ve passed each other in the hallway since the morning bell rang, Onagawa has given him two uncharacteristically cheerful smiles, ear-to-ear, like maybe he’s planning on murdering him to secure his own victory. Maybe that’s the team bonding experience he’s brewing up: a riot. Mutiny. _Usurpation,_ swift and cold blooded. He knows Onagawa wants nothing to do with captaincy, but still. He can see it now – an innocent recommendation to go play laser tag, a cruel twist of fate in the dark indoor arena, Kenji left to bleed out on a dirty floor, Aone left to write him a mournful eulogy. A karaoke trip with the team, a drowsy cold medicine tablet slipped into his drink to make him re-enact his behavior after a certain trip to the dentist office that left him embarrassingly loopy, a story which always seems to fill Onagawa with a strange sense of mirth whenever it’s revisited.

It’s always been there, hasn’t it? The _nerve._

“That was only two words,” Kenji points out. “Are you playing already?”

“No,” Aone answers, and turns to walk to class. Students move around him like a parting sea. Kenji still doesn’t like that, how people automatically avoid Aone like he’s going to do anything but the right thing. So he swaps his school bag to his other shoulder and runs to catch up, flashily looping an arm through Aone’s as soon as they’re side by side.

If Aone thinks the gesture unusual he doesn’t say anything, not even when Kenji curls a hand over Aone’s bicep and holds on.

**

 

> To: Aone  
>  does it count if I get you to txt me more than two words?? i forgot to ask him
> 
> To: Aone  
>  i’m so bored tho this can be off the record if you want
> 
> To: Aone  
>  my next subject is history. put those as my last words
> 
> To: Aone  
>  nvm put this ‘GGggggggghhh’
> 
> To: Aone  
>  UuuuuuuuuUuuuuuuuuugh
> 
> To: Aone  
>  do u need me to teach you how to text in class again
> 
> From: Aone  
>  You’re going to get caught and then you’re going to get me caught
> 
> To: Aone  
>  i’m screenshotting that!

 

**  
“Pantalons says text messages don’t count, so,” Kenji starts as soon as he’s finished shoving a desk against Aone’s, an affair that sent enough offensive scrapes into the air that half the class gave him dirty looks for it. He folds his arms atop the chair he’s sitting backwards in. It’s damp and drizzling outside or else they would both be down in the courtyard, enjoying the fresh air. “What did you bring for lunch today?”

“A bento,” Aone answers, succinct.

“What’s in it?”

Aone pops the lid of his container off instead of answering, pushing it a few scant centimeters closer to Kenji in a gesture of display and offering. Kenji pouts and picks up a pickled radish, chewing it thoughtfully. It’s not the kind of sour he has a taste for but it still tastes good. At this rate he’ll never win. Aone is too good, probably because being quiet comprises his normal everyday behavior and it’s not like Kenji’s ever minded that. They wouldn’t be so close if he did. But it means that Kenji is going to have to be more sophisticated with his attempts if he wants to shove a sound victory into Onagawa’s fluffy headed little face before the day ends.

“What’s the full name of our school?” he asks.

Aone stares at him like he’s grown a second head.

“No?” Kenji leans forward. “Nothing?”

“Finish eating,” Aone answers without even a beat of hesitation. Kenji sits back with a huff. He’s too good! He doesn’t even have to mind his own word count! But it means something that Aone hasn’t yet lost, for as quiet as he is he’s not overly taciturn when he does get to talking. It means that Aone might be humoring him after all, and that he still has a fighting chance.

**  
It goes on like that for the rest of the day. Kenji keeps trying to fake like he doesn’t understand what Aone’s grunts and glances and gestures mean, and then Aone looks at him with a frown that he knows translates into something like _Stop being stupid._

Kenji’s slowly becoming familiar with what desperation feels like.

When he passes Onagawa for a third time on the way to his last class, Onagawa raises one hand up and rubs two fingers and a thumb together as if there were already several crisp banknotes stuck between them. Kenji stares him down until they pass each other, and then he mutters “This is stupid.”

He pulls out his phone.

 

> To: Aone  
>  remember me fondly ok
> 
> From: Aone  
>  Okay?

 

He’s still not going to lose. There’s still after school practice.

**  
After school practice is a lost cause.

He’s forgotten one key detail: There’s not much to say when they’re all scrambling through drills and spikes and receives, and Kenji’s not so vindictive as to mess with Aone’s temperament when there are still matches to win in the future. Moniwa would be proud. It’s beginning to sink in just how poor of a bet he’s made.

“Hey,” Onagawa greets once they’re all back in the clubroom, casually leaning against the locker he was about to open. Kenji thinks about how satisfying it would feel to wipe that smug quirk of the lips off the other’s face, but instead he takes out his wallet and silently starts slapping some yen into Onagawa’s open palm, hissing out the final amount when prompted.

“What happened?” Koganegawa stage whispers. Beside him Sakunami shrugs and continues pulling off his shirt.

Kenji has to stand there and watch as Onagawa recounts what he’d _just_ counted out, looks up and says “Bye, loser.”

“Excuse me??”

“You just lost a bet. Therefore,” Onagawa fans the notes at him. “Loser.”

Kenji sputters ugly and, in the quiet of the clubroom, it sounds like a dying motorboat. There’s a damning silence then, like everyone’s trying hard not to laugh out of some warped show of respect for their captain, and Kenji’s trying hard to forget he made that noise at all, but then his sanctuary is ruined by the least expected person--

“Oh my god,” Aone says.

“Oh my god!” Kenji whirls on him, feeling the back of his neck burn when he realizes that Aone’s laughing, soft and gone already but so rare that he wants to hear it again. “Is that all it took? Me making a fool of myself?”

“Isn’t that all it ever takes?” Obara mutters, already dressed and breezing out the door.


	3. mihashi ren/kanou shuugo, g

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> kanou's thoughts after the mihoshi-nishiura practice match

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no new tags!

They part like that, sharing a few other words that don’t stick as heavily as the three that had fallen from Mihashi’s mouth.

_I’m not lonely._

Kanou is left with a swelling feeling that he had hardly said what he wanted to say at all. Dissatisfaction folds over him as he turns on heel, far thicker than what was warranted by the loss Mihoshi just suffered. It hadn’t been an insignificant game, of course. It was important in the way that practice matches were important for testing out the team’s strengths and preparedness. After the _good games_ and the _let’s play agains_ there had hardly been anything else left for them to say anyway. Kanou and the others had already taken their precious time deciding whether or not to chase Nishiura down before the other team reached their bus and left the school grounds for good. The Nishiura players had already been dressed, walking toward the parking lot, and Kanou didn’t want to hold them back just to satisfy his want for closure, for something, for piece to salvage from the wreckage that Kanou had noticed much too late do anything about. Too late to sap the poison that had settled in Mihashi’s blood and much too late stop the barbs from flying from his teammates’ mouths in the first place. Nearly too late to do anything about it today too, he thinks, still caustic at how his own teammates dismissed Mihashi’s skill so readily like it was nothing, like he wasn’t _good,_ like it was _him or Mihashi,_ like Kanou needed to be protected and defended.

Kanou had bowed his head and apologized and asked Mihashi to come back, they all had, sincerely, even Hatake said it and he’d _meant_ it and god – that still wasn’t enough, was it? Nothing could throw back time and reverse everything that had been done.

He should have known what was going on or at least noticed _more,_ should have done something to be a better friend to Mihashi, but all Mihashi did was play and play like he never wanted to give up the mound and Kanou had the ignorance to mistake it all for ambition and admire him for it.

Even with his feet planted in the neighborhood he used to walk through everyday Mihashi had sounded like he’d already found a better home in the new teammates standing at his back.

 _Stupid,_ he thinks aimlessly and without much vehemence.

Kanou broods, but he doesn’t break.

A shadow falls over him. He glances to the side, then up. “You need to cool off,” Oda informs him as they spill back onto the infield, sounding like the peace after a storm instead of the calm in the eye of it that’s still brewing somewhere in Kanou’s heart.

Kanou remembers saying things he hadn’t wanted to let spill out over the pitcher’s mound in the middle of an inning – or anywhere else really – and sighs, nodding.

Oda claps him on the back and moves on to post-practice practice.

Hatake gives him a look over a shoulder like he wants to say something too but changes his mind at the last second, offering instead, “We can handle the rest of the field maintenance.”

“No thanks,” Kanou replies. _I thought you didn’t like favoritism._ Unbidden, a sour note of vitriol wanting to rise up again… He bites the inside of his cheek and reminds himself that all of this wasn’t Hatake’s fault. The very idea of taking it easy, though. “Besides, practice isn’t over yet.”

So Kanou rakes up the infield with the rest of them and does cool down exercises, no pitching. It’s strange having his pitch count looked after closer than ever. High school sports club is exhausting, but he’ll push through it and eventually get used to the changes.

Mihashi pitched in longer and harder games all the time.

They end with plentiful laps around the perimeter that turns his legs into jelly but has his mind pleasantly floating with the most insignificant thoughts. By the time they finish the sun is bleeding itself into the horizon, turning the sky hot red and black around the edges.

“You think Coach was mad at us?” Miyakawa drily comments on the way back to the locker room, and Kanou snorts from behind the cap he’s fanning himself with.

**

Hatake stops him right after Kanou finishes straddling his bike by the school gates.

The catcher has one hand curled around his handlebar. Kanou doesn’t miss the way it tightens fractionally the moment Hatake opens his mouth to speak.

**

Fire and brimstone roils in the pit of his stomach the entire ride home, so thick he can nearly choke on the smoke billowing up from it and its whispering echo of Maybe I really should have broken your arms back then and It was just a threat, I really wasn’t going to do anythi--

Kanou stands up on his pedals and dances the rest of the way home, fingers hurting with how hard they’re gripping his bike handles.

**

There are only sparks and embers left as he passes through his front door, ashes and something loose and yawning fluttering beneath his sternum, threatening to fester if he lets it settle there for long enough.

Kanou’s too tired to do anything more than eat, wash up, collapse into bed and try not to think about how many homework assignments he’ll need to rush in the morning.

He turns onto his side and shuts his eyes, seeking sleep.

“Ren,” he says into the darkness, and he has to heave an inhale for the way his chest aches around the syllable. He breathes the feeling out but the air is muggy and it sticks in his throat instead, barely soothed by the blades of the fan churning slowly above his head.

“Renren,” he whispers instead but it tastes even worse on his palate, like he's taken something precious and dashed is upon the floor, or like a pill to be swallowed down before the bittersweet could burst all over his tongue. Not quickly enough. A vivid memory of him and Mihashi and Ruri playing catch ball together flashes on the black backdrop of his closed eyelids, burning red when Kanou tries to erase it with by digging the heels of his hands hard against them. The cloying smell of freshly mowed grass filling the back of his throat, the chirp of summer cicadas buzz in his ears, humming low beneath the crisp smack-pause-smack of the baseball flying from one glove to another--

The one time Mihashi left to fetch a wild ball that went soaring high into the trees, always the best at finding them, and Ruri had leaned over and shown him a picture of Mihashi’s new practice board split up so small and neat, three-by-three (a nine strike zone!), a skull and crossbones in the center, Mihashi’s arm a blur caught in the middle of a pitch, and all Kanou could think was _I don’t know anyone else like him._

The memory’s there and gone in a second but it leaves him feeling scoured out.

You’re _the one who’s lonely, not_ them.

He’s lost him. He’s lost Mihashi and he’s a little lost himself, but he won’t stay there forever.

Turning over, Kanou reaches beside his pillow for his phone.

 

[ **From: Hatake**  
sorry, really ] 

“I forgive you,” Kanou tries, but it doesn’t yet sound sincere so he exits and scrolls up without responding.

[ **From: Oda**  
You never really explained that slow fastball to me, you know. ]

[ **To: Oda**  
Like when I explained that it was a slow fastball? ]

He closes that too and stares at his home screen. There’s an old telephone number sitting low in his contact list.

 

**Mihashi**

 

Kanou’s thumb hovers over the keys. In his night shrouded bedroom the bright glow from the screen aches his eyes but he squints through it, drafts falling like sand through an hour glass.

[ What they did to you wasn’t fair. ] **Message not sent.**  
[ I wasn’t very fair either, I think. ] **Message not sent.**  
[ You’re good and I’m glad you didn’t really give it up, even if it's not here. ] **Message not sent.**  
[ What's Nishiura like? ] **Message not sent.**

 

 

[ **To: Mihashi**  
Let’s both win. ]


End file.
